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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25965154">Endurance Test</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolahaze/pseuds/lolahaze'>lolahaze</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sharp Objects - Gillian Flynn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Childhood Trauma, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Gaslighting, Humiliation, Non-Consensual Spanking, Object Insertion, Painful Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Pregnant Victim, Slut Shaming, Spanking, Underage Rape/Non-con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:27:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,595</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25965154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolahaze/pseuds/lolahaze</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's time for Adora to take her punishment.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joya Preaker/Adora Crellin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Darkest Night 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Endurance Test</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_inks/gifts">indigo_inks</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Adora walks in the house in the dead of night, at an hour that is far too late to be out but she has no choice, as usual. When her mother gets the urge to leave her in the woods, perhaps hoping Adora would die there, Adora can only do so much; she rather not wait until next morning to come home. So she will hold her head up high and enter her own home. She lives here; she’s entitled to it. She will live here long after her mother dies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, her mother is awake and far more unfortunate, Adora has to pass the kitchen to get to her room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve come back,” her mother says, sitting at the kitchen table. She is dressed in a soft green, flowered dress, one that Adora found quiet ugly but her mother made it work. Green was her mother’s color. It made her look like a bright emerald. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the table is Adora’s hairbrush. The sight of it feels ominous, it sends a sinking feeling in her stomach, if that was possible with a baby inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adora doesn’t answer—what can she say? With her mother, every response is a minefield, stepping on eggshells. There was never anything she could do to make her mother happy. For Joya, rage and happiness were closely intertwined. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lowers her head and starts to head up stairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Answer me!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adora jumps, her hand tight on the railing, white knuckles. She slips back down the stairs and eyes her mother</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have I raised such an insolent daughter that she refuses to acknowledge her own mother?” She huffs, her voice thick with emotion. What emotion, Adora couldn’t place. Anger? Rage? Embarrassment? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tears?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Mama,” Adora answers very quickly, cowed easily in the face of her mother’s rage. “I found my way home...was I not supposed to find my way home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Am I to die there?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe she was supposed to live in the woods. Adora considers it. Giving birth day, raising a feral child, like Hester Prynn and her spawn Pearl in the Scarlet Letter? If so, she wishes her mother would outright say it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come here,” she says. Joya very daintily pats her knees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a lie. There’s nothing dainty about her mother. Adora knows this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she approaches her mother, standing as straight as she can, she knows exactly what she’s going to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bend over,” her mother says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adora stifles her sigh, her gasp, any response. She knows how Joya will take that—as further insolence. As rebellion. As embarrassment. All she is an embarrassment to her mother now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she does as she’s told—assumes the position, bending over the table. She has to be careful now, because one wrong move will increase the punishment. So Adora stands as still as she can, gripping the table’s edges with her hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her mother stands up. The slide of the kitchen chair on the floor sounds like a screech to her, painful. The anticipation building up is too much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her mother pushes her dress up to her hips, bunching it up there, then she pulls the underwear down her legs until it’s by her ankles, trapping her. For a moment, she runs her palm over her bare ass. Adora shivers, and tells herself it’s because the cold, and not because the way her mother caresses her feels nice. If this is all her mother wanted to do to her, it’d be alright. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, her mother grabs her hair brush and before Adora can process what she’s feeling, she gives her one hard smack on her ass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adora doesn’t cry out. She can feel it, the scream, building in her chest, trying to squirm away in her throat, but she doesn’t let it slip. Keeps it contained inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So her mother hits her again. And again. Each hit becoming more and more merciless. Adora whimpers and feels tears rolling down her cheeks and she hates that she’s doing this, using an instrument she uses every day to clean herself up as the instrument of her torture, and still she does not cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As her mother's hits grow harder and harder, Adora feels her belly kick, hard, the baby protesting the pain. Finally, that’s what makes Adora break and scream, at last, letting it out, stuck between two different types of pain; the raw impact of her hair brush and her insides screaming at her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Adora hates the child in her womb. Hates her. Hates the way her swollen, pregnant belly brought this on, hates the way her mother has decided to punish for her this child. That’s all this is, at the end of the day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hairbrush spanking stops. Adore thinks this is a relief but she doesn’t want to get her hopes up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Spread your legs," her mother says and the tone, the words, startle Adora so much she jumps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mama," she starts to ask, trailing off in horror. "What are you—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her mother smacks her with the hairbrush, hard on the small of her back. It takes all of Adora's energy to not scream yet again. The pain was agony, burning up and down her spine, flaring hot and terrible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you're gonna act like a slut, I'm going to treat you like one," her mother says in a harsh, stern whisper. The words sink into Adora's skin. Her belly throbs yet again. She wonders if her child will survive the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mama...please...the baby," she pleads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your baby will live,” she snarls. “Unfortunately.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her mother shoves her fingers inside her without fanfare, without preamble, just two fingers with sharp nails deep inside her dry cunt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adora shrieks.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her mother slaps her ass this time with a bare hand, which hurts less and feels all the more humiliating. “If you’re going to act like that, I’ll give you something to scream about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She curls her nails in and it takes all Adora has in her to bite down on her lip and hold it all inside. It hurts so bad. There’s nothing like being scratched and having nails drag down in such delicate spots inside her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her baby kicks again and Adora thinks she may throw up, can feel nausea and pain bubbling down inside her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mama, please,” she cries out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” her mother says. “You will have no absolution.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulls her fingers out then. For a moment, Adora thinks it’s over. They’re done. A naive thought. Perhaps her mother will see fit to punish her for the rest of her life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Joya grabs the hairbrush again. Adora may be pregnant but she’s sixteen and her mind is still mostly innocent. She only thinks her mother is going to hit her with it again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adora screams when her mother shoves the handle of the hairbrush inside her. She does not ease it in, she simply pushes it inside her, past all resistance. It’s agony—her cunt isn’t prepared, even with her mother’s fingers inside her, and her body doesn’t feel wide enough to accommodate it. Joya shoves it until it won’t go, and it hurts so much, stretching her wide to the brink. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thinks, struggling to breathe, trying to catch her breath. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What is the point of this</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why why why? </span>
  </em>
  <span>She’s going to throw up, fighting not to gag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joya pulls it out, to the tip, in one excruciatingly long gesture, before shoving it back in, then out, and in, out and in, until Adora is sobbing, until her channel and inner walls inside her are burning. She allows herself to scream and scream, the fight gone out of her, shrieking in pain until her voice is hoarse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no recourse. Orgasm is not the goal. Joya simply wants to see her child suffer, and perhaps, prove her love, by enduring her suffering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once again, Adora hates her child; hates it her more than her mother; she wonders if she'll be able to love her at all, after this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A couple hours later, she’s done, and Adora lays still, slumped on the kitchen table, unable to move. Her entire lower body ached—ass, cunt, thighs, in her insides, her guts. Her mother doesn’t say anything to her, but she leans over and kisses her temple, patting her on the head. Her lips leave a lipstick mark on her skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Adora throws up afterwards, hanging her head over the toilet bowl. Her cunt aches painfully and she can’t quite sit right. In fact, there’s no position she can sit in or lay in without some kind of pain throbbing through her insides. It’s agony trying to urinate. It’s agony trying to sit down. Everything down in her nether regions is very tender and swollen. When she urinates, it’s tinged pink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s over at least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She brings herself to bed and gently eases herself on the blanket. It’s far too hot to hide under them. She wants to lie on her stomach, and keeps her legs spread, air the pain out, but she can’t. Not with her child in the way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, Adora resolves not to mother her child in her womb the way Joya does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She will not mother with hard smacks and slaps and rigged loyalty tests in the woods, or hairbrushes pushed in soft, young cunts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She will use sweetness and honey, even to discipline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t know if she can love her child, whoever she is, whoever she will be—but she can endure her.</span>
</p>
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